


Timshel

by JDylah_da_Kylah



Series: Phototropic [6]
Category: Starfighter Eclipse
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Philosophy, Platonic Praxis/Selene, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 22:29:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7988452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JDylah_da_Kylah/pseuds/JDylah_da_Kylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A month has passed since the events of "Haven't Been Able to Sleep," and Helios is slated to rejoin the <em>Kepler</em> soon. After so long apart, Selene becomes worried at the Fighter's reluctance to be candid with him about why he risked—and almost lost—his life in a fight over the Navigator. The latter's search for answers finds him posing some hard questions to two very different men, who each in their own ways have been in Helios' stead before.</p><p>Or: What can be said of one's having dominion over sin can be said also of love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Timshel

**Author's Note:**

> After the . . . unexpectedness? . . . of "Haven't Been Able to Sleep," I knew I needed something to balance that story out.
> 
> I also wanted to give Cain some redemption, since he's generally (if briefly) been a prick in whatever story I cast him in. He's not exactly "nice" here, but certainly better than before, and in his own way, I do think he's trying to help Selene.
> 
> Finally, the briefly-alluded-to dynamic between Praxis and Selene in SF:E intrigues me, and seemed like something worth exploring as Selene frets that the Helios to return to him won't be the same Afon he loved.
> 
> I must also tip my hat to the amazing John Steinbeck and his flipping phenomenal _East of Eden._ From that I first learned about the different meanings of timshel and knew I had to incorporate them here. (Hooray for Praxis being a closet intellectual!)
> 
> Reviews, comments, whatever you please are always welcome and appreciated. I do hope you enjoy! <3

"Cain."

The Fighter glanced up from his bowl of far-too-salty borsch, beet-juice blood-red against his lips. The table was otherwise empty; Abel was on the bridge and his little myshonok was . . . somewhere.

"Could we—could I join you? There's something I want to ask you."

"Hnh." He waved a hand. "Depends."

Selene slid daintily into the seat across from him; the Navigator eyed the cooling root-soup warily. "Look, I—I wanted to talk about Helios."

"He's coming back, is he? Been long enough."

"A month."

"And that dick Hayden didn't reassign you?"

"No. It's—it's a month, which is a long time, but . . . I'm not going to complain. He's got a reason." Selene frowned a moment, vividly recalling the day in Hayden's office, just after Helios had been transported to some insignificant, if competent, Alliance base. Selene had been almost hysterical—no one had told him—he'd gone down to the Med Bay and his Afon was _gone—_

Hayden had all but thrown him in a chair and, voice low, level, graveled, utterly unsympathetic, said:

"Calm down. We're not officially reassigning you as-yet because, assuming your Fighter makes a full recovery, it'd cost the Alliance more trouble than it's worth trying to find compatible matches for you both. Again. It's a month without him, though, so I expect you to still be competent, you understand? Run VR sims with the other Fighters if they need the extra practice. And if we run into the Colterons, you _will_ be expected to navigate for _someone_ : you might be replacing someone, do you understand? Your boyfriend's absence can't interfere with your duties to the Alliance. As long as that much is understood—"

The conditions were enough: Selene was capable, hard-working—brilliant, so his Afon always said—and there was enough work around the _Kepler_ to keep him occupied. Praxis had proven to be a worthy opponent at cards. Gentle Ethos went out of his way to make sure Selene was well.

But a month . . . his head, his heart, his body all hurt too badly now. He just wanted Afon . . . home. And soon enough he wasn't sure he'd be able to live up to Hayden's expectations anymore. He _had_ to, though—what other choice was there?

_But can I even trust him—?_

"Oy! Mal'chick!"

Cain's impatient snort broke into his thoughts. Carefully, then, carefully so as not to give away his weakness—not to anyone—not even to Afon, when they were granted brief messages to one another—

_Ah, I got too good at this—_

"What's Hayden got you doing, then?"

"I've been helping Keeler, mostly; running sims with Encke, anyway, because . . ." The sentence died against his lips: Keeler hadn't left the bridge, hadn't been in the training room, hadn't volunteered for even a surveillance mission for a while now. "Well, Encke wants some extra practice, and Keeler can't always take the time away. So—"

"Tch. Enough. Alright! What do you _want_ , Selene?"

The Navigator laid his hands on the table, flat, palms down—something he hoped would seem assertive, honest. "I'm not asking for answers. Just—to understand, a bit, before he comes back. I want to understand part of why he tried to take on Loki. He knew he couldn't win—"

"First mistake." Cain jabbed his spoon in Selene's direction. "We always think we'll win. Always. Doesn't matter how fucked up you are at the end of it. Every fight, you think you'll win. You _know_ you'll win. And anyway—why the fuck are you asking me? It's his head. He was the one who fucking almost lost his life for you."

"I didn't ever _want_ him to—"

" _Why are you asking me_?"

The fist, slammed against the table, trays a-rattling, came within centimeters of his hand. Selene, familiar enough with the ritualized posturing, the violence as was rife within the Fighters' social norms, forced himself to be still, to breathe steadily, to look Cain in the eyes.

"I never, not once, asked him to try and take on Loki. I honestly thought the man might turn out to be a decent human being. I don't know what happened. He won't tell me. I don't even know if he remembers.

"Look, Cain, I'm asking _you_ because I know you'd do the same for Abel, and in good conscience I can't say I know that's true for any of the other Fighters. It wouldn't matter about the other man—what his intentions really were—if you ever thought someone was making a move on him—"

"Heh. Done that already. Praxis."

". . . What?"

"Ask him." Cain raised the bowl to his mouth, foregoing the spoon entirely. Wiping his lips with the back of one hand: "Don't waste my time. You got something else or can I leave?"

Selene shook his head, bewildered, Praxis' name still ringing echoes in his head. He'd gone to Cain explicitly because the Fighter was—well—he seemed always in a fight with _someone_ ; Deimos was always off-limits and Encke and Praxis were comparatively gentlemen.

. . . _So I thought._

"No," he muttered finally. "No, I don't think—"

Another impatient huff, a shadow shifted, and when Selene glanced up from his tray, he found Cain gone.

* * *

The Fighter's face was healthy and his eyes were bright; the casts were gone from his arm, his leg; shadows of bruises still lingered here and there but were faint and fading, still; a scar ran down his chest: it made the Navigator's stomach turn: in his nightmares, sometimes, he still heard the telltale electric whine, he saw the open maw of the chest, the heart in its arrhythmic throes, the defibrillator's paddles slipped into the cavern—

But no, but no, that wasn't worth chewing over when the proof of Helios' _life_ was here before him. Given how jauntily he stood, Selene supposed his ribs were also healed. And it took an intense amount of gall to relay such an image across the Alliance's network. He must be feeling well.

"Miss you" had been the caption—and Selene, who was no stranger to the Fighter's body, blushed and hastily tapped the image away from his datapad's screen. The reply was short, was what he knew Helios expected:

"I won't be sending something like that in return. But soon, Afon. I love you."

Curled up on the top bunk—Selene had given up sleeping down below—the Fighter was at once too present and too absent there—he set the datapad aside, closing his eyes, still blushing thickly at the image—and a little angry, too. Helios shouldn't have sent something that intimate, that private. Other men had seen him, had been with him—Selene was no fool—but somehow it felt—he didn't know—

The network scanners, responsible for clearing all Alliance messages, had seen that.

It felt like a cheap shot at something that was sacred.

Because it was, it was: Selene clenched his hands, torn between a mounting fury and the ever-present, aching _yearning_ for the Fighter's touch. Perhaps Helios had meant it as something to please him, but all it did was underscore their distance—or drag something precious from the holy-dark, the heat, the gasping breath and choked-outcry out into the light, the cold, the _silence_ and the _stillness_ of pixelated frost: a poor, poor substitute for burning, living skin, and flesh, and sinews strung taut and hips rocking together in a half-kept rhythm and a genuine, _genuine_ , soft-edged, softly-whispered, "Oh, I've _missed_ you."

* * *

"Selene!"

Ethos, optimistic—always—opened the door to the room he shared with Praxis, a smile sprawled across his rounded face.

"Ho, Ethos." Selene managed a smile. "Is Praxis—"

"Hey!"

From the shadow of the lower bunk a figure roused itself; Praxis, black-and-grey-clad in Fighters' casuals, took form and flesh, stepping into the fierce halogen lights. "What brings you here? It's almost lights-out."

Glancing guiltily at Ethos—knowing it was only recently that he and Praxis had begun to understand each other—Selene said, "I know. But—"

"A nightmare?" Praxis was pulling on his boots; Ethos had retreated to the desk and pulled up some random schematic; mentally Selene promised himself that he'd check in with Ethos later. That Praxis had so openly flirted with him—that they'd become friends of a sort since Helios had left—couldn't sit well with the linguist.

"No, no, I'm not asleep so early . . ."

Praxis' gaze slid over to Ethos as well. "Uhm."

"The observation deck? Just—not for long."

"It's okay." Ethos never turned to look at them. "It's fine."

Praxis winced when the door was closed and he and Selene found themselves in the deserted hall. "Shit."

"I'm—Praxis, I'm sorry. I wouldn't ask if it weren't important."

Praxis' hand was heavy on the Navigator's shoulder. "Yeah—yeah, I know. It's fine, Selene. It's—honestly, it's been hard on everyone with Helios not here."

"What?"

"He's a good guy. Yeah, it took him a while to get his bearings but he's liked, you know? And everyone knows why he—why what happened, happened. Fighters sure as fuck won't say it but it actually means a lot, that he'd try to protect you, whether or not you needed it—whether or not it was all just in his head. It's . . . an honor-thing, I guess."

The lifts had borne them up two floors; the observation deck was empty, as so many other places on the _Kepler_ at this time, this twilight, the day-shift soon to snap unnaturally into night. The lights here were always dim; the stars snagged against their eyes; they sat together, silent for a moment, settling into an easy closeness, a camaraderie.

Since Helios had left, Praxis had made no more advances: they'd never been serious to begin with, but now more than ever, Selene found himself glad for the Fighter's surprising show of tact.

And so to him he turned when the nightmares came, when the nights were vicious beasts, when Praxis and Ethos let him take the upper bunk in their room some nights—just so he wasn't all alone: such a kindness that he quickly got over his discomfort. They'd never said a word about it, never called him out for weakness, never slighted him or judged him. It just was.

"So. What's up?"

"I talked to Cain today about—about why it might have happened."

"Hm."

"Be honest, Praxis."

"Well, Selene, that was—that wasn't . . . _Cain_?"

"He . . . told me. About you and him. About . . . Abel."

Selene listened as Praxis struggled for a steady breath.

"Well, fine. So he told you. So what else?"

"That's why I came to you."

"Fuck. _No_."

"Not because—it's not my business, Praxis, I get that. I just . . . Helios won't talk to me about it. I've tried. And then I've left him alone hoping he'd tell me eventually, hoping he'd . . . apologize . . . for doing something so stupid, so irrational, so unnecessary . . . for me."

"Forget him being a Fighter, Selene, for just a minute. Think. That's what love _does_ to people. It's what happens when you've seen shit happen to people you love, when maybe you haven't been able to help them, and then suddenly—you can. Or you can try."

"Cain said Fighters never think they'll lose."

"We're too pig-headed to admit defeat. Most of us . . . we taught ourselves to not be afraid a long, long time ago."

Selene ducked his head; the lights sighed off; it was night aboard the _Kepler_ and the stars were bright in Praxis' own eye.

"Navigators too, you know."

The Fighter's voice was soft; he wasn't looking at Selene; he wasn't seeing the stars, really, at all.

"That's how I lost my Logos. Heh. My logos—ruling logic of the universe—my sanity, I guess. He died and I . . . I lost it for a while. That's why I wanted Abel—he was . . . I don't know. It doesn't matter.

"But that's what love does. Even if you know you'll never win, even if you know you'll die, you do everything you can to save someone. Logos was trying to save me. That's how . . ."

Praxis was trembling—Selene could hear it in his breath. Remembering that it had been Praxis who'd kept him from falling apart entirely when Helios was first in Med Bay, the MO fighting nature for his life—he edged closer, wrapping an arm around the larger man's shoulders, hesitant until Praxis dropped his head, leaned into the touch.

"I don't know what he's seen, but I'll bet you that he really was just trying to keep you safe, because he loves you, and because love's fucking stupid like that."

Selene nodded, absently running his hand in smooth circles over the Fighter's iron shoulder. "He . . . Praxis, I'm so afraid that he'll be different."

"Something like that . . . can mess you up."

"He's like a stranger in some ways. The Alliance lets us communicate—a bit—but I don't know. Maybe there's a side to him I never knew."

"What do you mean?"

"He . . . He sent me something today. Praxis, we're not prudes but—"

"But you're private. It's something—something really gentle."

The Navigator shrugged.

"Well, Selene, that's who you _are_ , so I'd expect that's how he is, too. Or how he's become."

"It's changed. Today. Something—something changed."

"Because he sent you a picture."

"Which was seen by the scanners."

". . . Ah. How's that different from everyone seeing him in the showers?"

"Praxis!"

"Ah, I'm just asking. Hey. Calm down. Look, no, I get it. That was flippant, and I'm sorry. No . . ." Praxis tilted his head, wondering suddenly—almost laughably—what it would be like if Ethos had a buried streak of lechery. Not funny at all, in truth: he knew he'd be just as sickened as Selene.

"And now he's coming back. Praxis, what if I don't know him anymore?"

"Shh. Selene." Praxis fumbled through the dark, shifted, let the Navigator's head lay on his shoulder instead; he ran his fingers through the long, soft hair; he put all of the old thoughts from mind and knew, and knew, that this would never come to love.

"Selene, listen to me. He—your Afon—loves you."

Selene jerked sharply, as if struck, as if hearing his Fighter's name, real name, on anybody's lips was salt in an open wound.

"Yeah, I was on the bridge—do you remember? Anyway."

"Don't. Ever." Selene spoke through grinding teeth. "He's Helios to everyone, you understand? Cain . . . Cain bites people but I just . . . I use his name. That's all. And you—"

"Fuck, okay, I'm sorry."

Suddenly Praxis began to laugh.

"See, here's the thing, Selene. If you—if you were a Fighter, say—just then you'd have punched me in the face. Okay? But you're not like that. Still, just now—just now, what did you feel? Hm? You felt love. You felt protective—maybe even a bit possessive, neh? You understand?"

_What he felt?_

"Plus . . . Selene, think about it this way. We're visceral creatures, all of us, even though some of us—which is to say, you all—Navigators . . . well, you tend to use your heads. Mostly. I won't speak for Phobos, but . . ."

"Hm."

"Listen. Helios might be different for a while. He's been laid up on some Alliance base in their medical facilities going through physical therapy. The other, worse PT, I guess. So he probably hasn't known what to do with himself. He hasn't had the shit-ton of work Hayden heaps on you to keep his mind off it. And, sure, you two might have some degree of communication—but—it's not the same. It's not like having me and Ethos."

_No._

"So he's probably reliving whatever happened. Maybe it reminds him of the colonies. Either way . . . Selene, he's been in his own head for a month. So if he . . . if he slips up, slips back, becomes more of the man he was before joining the Alliance . . . you can't really blame him, can you?"

Selene shook his head. "You're right. I don't know."

"But that's not your job to think about. You're his Navigator. Do you remember how many times he's called you fucking brilliant? Do you remember how he looks at you? How he can't hardly concentrate whenever you're around? How he was there after the transport? That Helios is still there, Selene. It just might take a while for him to remember that—that the _Kepler,_ really, isn't the colonies. That he doesn't need to constantly fear for his life or your safety—"

"The Colterons."

"Yes, well, I mean . . . He doesn't need to be afraid of _us._ "

"Deimos."

Praxis sighed. "Are you being a prick on purpose?"

"Of course I . . ." Selene balled his hands into fists. "Praxis, I appreciate what you're telling me, but excuse me if it's a little hard to swallow at the moment. He just sent me a . . . it's more than the picture, do you understand? He—it felt like—it's not something the Helios I know would do. So . . . fuck. Yes. I'll be a prick, thank you."

A low chuckle rose up from the Fighter's chest. "Ah. And you've also been apart for a month. That's . . . that's got to be contributing to . . . your being salty. Heh."

"Shut up."

Selene rose to his feet, impatient, restive. Rationally he knew that Praxis' words would sink in eventually, would work their way into his head, would make sense—because they were true. He just couldn't do it anymore. Not now. The . . . picture . . . was still too fresh, the pain of it too real, the unavoidable onslaught of desire too quick to spike his blood.

They left the observation deck; Praxis slid into the lift, pressed himself against the wall, gave Selene some space. As they descended toward their bunks, however, he remarked:

"There was a word I learned once. I want to think it meant something about love."

"What?"

"Timshel."

"I know that word. Praxis—it isn't about love. It's . . . it's part of a . . . It's about Cain—not _our_ Cain, you idiot, quit laughing—having dominion over sin, after he's gone and committed the world's first murder."

"Tch. Okay. Whatever. Look. I read somewhere that this word has three meanings. Maybe. Or it gets translated into different ways because—because. There's always a spin on everything."

"Hm."

"So? Selene, you know what I'm getting at."

"Thou shalt. Do thou. Thou mayest."

"Right. A given. A command. A choice.

". . . Selene."

The lift had stopped, but Praxis didn't yet move to leave; he took the Navigator's shoulders, couldn't help but run a hand along his cheek, to brush a strand of ombre hair from his grey, grey eyes.

"Love . . . is never a given. We're never paired together as Fighter/Navigator teams because Command knows we're fucking soul-mates. Deimos and Phobos? No.

"And it's never a command. Not . . . explicitly. You and Helios could fucking hate each other but if your scores are good—who cares? If you're willing to be blown into bits, into atoms in the cosmos, against the Colterons—who cares?

"But love's . . . Thou mayest love. Thou mayest not. It's a choice, it's always a choice. It's a hell of a burden to carry . . ."

Praxis smiled, gently; in the gesture and his eye Selene saw the hurt, the need: he knew they were veritable mirrors of each other. Each knew that they could easily find comfort in each other's arms. Each knew that on some level they both deeply, deeply wanted it. But they also knew that there were others, others who needed them and whom they needed far, far more: Praxis had his Ethos, sweet, gentle, awkward Ethos, and Selene—

* * *

_Afon._

Selene pulled his datapad from the upper bunk, sinking down into the bed that was his and Afon's now. The image hadn't been permanently erased—he found it, easily, perhaps too easily: perhaps he'd mentally left himself a trail to follow, even in his grief, confusion, lust.

He stared at it for a long time. Praxis danced in-and-through his thoughts—because it _had_ been too long and his body didn't understand the difference between loyalty and agony—but his eyes always returned to the Fighter. To his face, his eyes, his _eyes_ ; to the hands, outstretched, palm-up—the hands which could undo him in an instant. To the smile—that much, at least, was genuine, Selene was sure: there was the gentle quirking of his lips, the color to his cheeks. And to the body of the man he loved, which was as familiar as his own: the vessel for that sun-bright soul which had almost, almost shattered.

"Timshel," he whispered huskily, half-reaching in the darkness for the form that wasn't there—wasn't, but soon would be. "Afon, thou may . . ."


End file.
